


The Best Part

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Haircuts, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, who wouldn't want to run their fingers through that hair?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen always goes with Jared to watch him get his hair cut. He pretends that he's just along for the ride, but he really, really likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Part

***

Jensen can’t decide what the best part is. Probably the hair washing. That’s where Jared’s practically lying down, his legs extended out, hands resting loose on thighs spread carelessly, tantalizingly wide. It’s where Jared's got his chin tilted up high, which lets Jensen linger over the long, vulnerable stretch of his neck, can store up fodder for fantasies of straddling Jared’s hips to lick the shallow, damp hollow at the join of his collarbone. It’s where Jensen can watch unobserved as the stylist combs her fingers through the thick weight of Jared’s hair, wetting it, massaging his scalp, gently smoothing a thumb across his stubbled cheek when a bit of shampoo escapes across it.

Jensen tries to shift inconspicuously in his seat as a familiar syrupy heat wells low in his groin. He looks away from Jared for a second to gather a bit of goddamn control, but his gaze snaps back as Jared lets out an obscene moan. 

“You’re the best.” Jared flirts like breathing, all dimples and bright eyes as he smiles up at the stylist. Jensen would like to keep smiles like that all to himself, but he’s not stupid enough to be jealous of what’s not his to begin with.

The hair washing is the best, but Jensen likes the cutting itself, too. He likes trading insults and goofy expressions with Jared in the mirror and seeing the careful way the woman brushes sections of hair this way and that, leaning in close to cut long chunks and tiny bits away. She gets really close. Jensen bets she’s already addicted to the subtle, tangy scent of Jared’s cologne. He loves teasing Jared about how he applies dots of it behind his ears like an eleven-year-old girl would, but the light touch makes it faint, elusive. The only way Jensen gets a whiff is when Jared tucks him up with an arm slung across his shoulders or during one of Jared’s campy hugs in front of the fans when they’re on stage. His nostrils flare at the thought, as if he could pick up the scent from his chair across the salon.

Jared calls over to him, peeking out through a layer of long, wet strands covering his eyes. “Should I have her get out the razor? Chop the whole mop off?”

“Don’t be cruel,” Jensen replies. “Think of how the fangirls would weep.” 

“Maybe after I’m done with Sam.”

“Maybe,” Jensen hears himself say, lifting the corner of his mouth in something like an offhand smirk. He hates when Jared mentions the end of the show. Despises it. Prefers to ignore the thought of the future, of any future where they’re not still doing this, together. 

But then comes the drying part, when Jared’s hair drifts like a soft cloud around his face and his eyes close with a look of bliss as he leans into the gentle heat and the pull of the brush like a petted cat. It fascinates Jensen. It makes him stupid. Makes him tender and covetous and frantic and fond and makes him clench his hands into fists to banish the phantom need to run them through the soft waves, smooth down the stray tendrils, twine his fingers in a handful at the base of Jared’s nape and pull his head back so that he’s looking up into Jensen’s face as he lowers slowly to meet Jared’s mouth and—

“Hey,” Jared says, snapping Jensen out of his daydream. “All done here.”

Jensen scrabbles to stand, tripping over his feet, which earns a raised eyebrow from Jared as he heads toward the desk at the front of the salon. Jensen hangs back a little, willing his stomach to stop fluttering, calling himself an idiot for once again failing to resist Jared’s pleas that he come along to these appointments. 

Jared pays, and they walk together out into the sunshine. Jared scoots close, claps a wide hand on Jensen’s shoulder, but Jensen can’t smell him, only the perfume of the product the woman sprayed last. Jensen shrugs Jared’s hand off.

“Oh. Sorry,” Jared says, a little line appearing between his brows. “I mean, sorry it took so long. Thanks for coming with me, man. I know it’s weird. It’s just—I really like having you with me. For company.”

“No problem,” Jensen says automatically. But now Jared’s chewing at his bottom lip, and sometimes it just hits Jensen a bit too hard. He figures holing up alone in his room for a little bit, maybe a shower and a date with his right hand, that should allow him to edge back into a normal headspace and stop acting like a wackjob. “I think I’ll head back to the hotel for a quick nap.”

Jared nods, running a hand through his just-styled hair and fucking it all up. “Okay. I guess I’ll—“ He looks around like a menu of activities is going to pop up in thin air. “I’ll go hit the private gym on the fourth floor.”

Oh great. Now all Jensen can think about is about is Jared, lying back on a padded bench, shirtless and sweaty and straining against a bar of weights. It’s a sickness is what it is.

“Maybe,” Jared continues in a small voice when Jensen doesn’t move or reply. “Maybe you wanna join me after you rest?” 

And, once again, Jensen has zero control. None. Nada. “Sure,” he says, all casual-like. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

Because Jensen can’t decide what the best part is: the pumping iron or the treadmill. Or maybe it’s the stretching. 

Definitely the stretching.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from fiercelynormal's J2/Wincest JIBCON Comment Meme on Livejournal.


End file.
